


(Sherlock X Reader) More Than Anything In The World

by LVE32



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Adorable, Adorable Sherlock Holmes, Best Friends, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cute, Cute Sherlock Holmes, Declarations Of Love, Emotional, Emotions, F/M, Falling In Love, Feels, First Kiss, First Relationship, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, He's so in love omg, Jealous Sherlock, Jealousy, Kissing, Loss of Virginity, Mild Sexual Content, Reader-Insert, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock in Love, Sherlock is a Good Boyfriend, Sherlock's First Time, Sweet, Vulnerable Sherlock, love sick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:06:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24646132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LVE32/pseuds/LVE32
Summary: Sherlock is head-over-heels in love with his flatmate, Y/N and it's really messing with his head; with his whole life.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 85





	(Sherlock X Reader) More Than Anything In The World

Sherlock flipped his coat collar up against the already bitter winds of November as he walked, head low, down the soaking London streets. Rain spat from the sky in a furious sheet, turning the view in front of him a miserable grey; despite the orange street lights. Tucking his arms closer to his body, he shoved his hands deeper into the depths of his pockets, balling them into fists to try nurse any sense of feeling back to the tips of his chill-kissed fingers.

He couldn't wait to get back to the flat, where his flatmate was undoubtedly waiting for him. Always compassionate for others, Y/N would welcome him home and be at the ready with a thick blanket, which she would proceed to wrap around Sherlock's sodden and aching shoulders while telling him he should have got a cab even though the store was just down the road, that he shouldn't have gone at all.

And Sherlock would shake his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he placed the milk on the table and told her it was really no trouble.

Sherlock smiled now, at the thought, and quickened his pace as a bristle of excitement fizzed up his spine when he wondered if his best friend might offer him a grateful hug or one of those special smiles she does just for him, for braving the weather just so she would have milk for her hot chocolate and breakfast tomorrow.

Sherlock has had a crush on his flatmate for a while now. They'd lived together for over three years, but it was only now that he really started to realize that maybe he wanted to be  _ more  _ than flatmates. More than friends. It had happened slowly, and then all at once. Like he was walking down a gentle slope, then suddenly tripped, and was rolling down, faster and faster, head over heels, and couldn't stop no matter how hard he had tried.

He'd tried at first, when the feeling had shocked him one day; a slight tugging deep in his chest for apparently no reason other than the fact that Y/N was smiling at him; her grin creasing the corners of her eyes and framing the hues of her iris in a joy-filled crescent moon shape. Sherlock had just stared, and a look of confusion crossed Y/N's face. She'd asked him if he was alright ---features laced with so much genuine concern--- and Sherlock had felt a strong urge to lean down that little bit to close the gap between their lips.

He hadn't done that though. He'd shaken his head as if to clear it and offered Y/N a wobbly smile and a 'Yeah, I'm fine'. Then he'd forced himself to look away, Y/N shrugging and deciding to cook dinner while the confused detective laid on the sofa and contemplated what that feeling had meant. He'd deemed it a fluke, a one-off, and doubted it would happen again.

But then it started to happen a lot.

Then all the time.

At first, it scared him. What if he gets so distracted by how Y/N's hair was reflecting the light that he missed a vital clue in a case? What if he was so immersed in what she was saying about the latest book she was passionate about that a criminal got the upper hand and they both suffered for it?

But then he realized that it wasn't just up to him to keep them safe. If he let his guard down, Y/N would prevent anything bad from happening. She would have his back. Be there for him. Plus; it felt really nice. Those moments when tingling sensations licked at the tops of his legs and crept up his stomach. When his heart fluttered each time Y/N touched him; graced her elbow against his accidentally as they crossed in the hall, sat close to him in a cab so their hips pushed together. Sherlock loved it, relished it, and slowly his crush festered itself and after months, he knew it was more than that.

He was in love.

It was because he was in  _ love  _ that Sherlock had offered to go to the store at midnight, in the pouring rain and the icy chill that came with the first dusting of winter. Y/N had opened the fridge to make hot chocolate and noticed they had only a few drops of milk left. She'd put on her coat to get some, but Sherlock had cringed at the thought of Y/N having to brave the weather (and he wanted her approval), and offered to go in her place.

Presently, Sherlock fumbled with his numb fingers to try fit the key in the lock, then dropped them, cursing, and bent to pick them up. The door opened and he slumped in relief when his landlord---Mrs Hudson---bundled him into the foyer, closing the door behind him. The ringing of the wind still sounded in his ears and he slipped off his coat, handing it to her as she fussed about him.

"You shouldn't have gone out there! You're freezing! And look at your hair! Practically dripping wet! Let's get you a towel." The older woman took his sodding coat into her small but homely kitchen, spreading it out on the radiator while the detective stood in the doorway, rubbing his hands.

A singular droplet of water rolled off his head and over his eyebrow, landing on the floor.

Mrs Hudson handed him a towel from her airing cupboard and he buried his face in it, scrubbing it over his hair and soaking up the dampness.

"Thank you. Is Y/N still awake, do you know?"

Mrs Hudson's face turned to a fond smile, "Yes, I think so. That's why you went out, isn't it? To get the bloody milk for her?" she chuckled and had crossed her thin arms over her bony chest and raised her brow. She knew about Sherlock's smouldering passion for his flatmate and had warned him that if he didn't tell Y/N about it soon, he may very well burn out.

Sherlock had denied all of it, but half-heartedly.

She saw right through him.

"We both need milk. Thank you for---this." He handed the towel back to her. "I'll be going up now. Good night."

Mrs Hudson sighed, tutting at his determination to keep his feelings hidden. "Sweet dreams, you silly boy."

The detective went upstairs to his flat on the first floor, picking up his feet happily at the thought of what might be waiting for him on the other side of the door; even if it was just a grateful smile. He opened it, already beaming, but the living room was empty.

Confused, and a little hurt that there wasn't a pleased and sympathetic Y/N to coddle him after his horrifying walk, Sherlock advanced further into the apartment, checking the kitchen.

Y/N wasn't there either. He put the milk in the fridge quickly, then went upstairs to his flatmate's room, knocking, then going inside. His abdomen curled into a tight and uncomfortable knot as rising fear leaked through him.

Where was Y/N?

Had she been kidnapped?

No sign of a break-in, a struggle. And Mrs Hudson would surely have noticed if someone came in and took her.

Panicking, Sherlock hurried back downstairs and checked the bathroom, then last, his room.

He didn't know why Y/N would be in his room. But when he opened the door ajar, it was dark, and there she was, curled up in Sherlock's bed, asleep.

Sherlock paused, still for a bit, thinking this over. The fear of his flatmate being hurt---or worse---lessened, then disappeared completely and was replaced by a hopeful thought that maybe she was in his bed because she wanted someone to sleep next to. Sherlock understood that; it was cold and miserable, and sharing a bed would be warm and comfy and safe.

Mind made up about how he was to proceed, Sherlock took his pyjamas off the dresser, tugging them on after visiting the bathroom quickly, and stepped back into his bedroom. Y/N hadn't moved, she was still on her side, back to the door, hair slightly fuzzy from where she'd been laying on it before.

Sherlock took a deep breath and clicked the hallway light off, plunging the room into darkness. When his eyes had adjusted, he felt his way over to the bed, and slipped into it, gently wrapping himself around Y/N.

Sherlock let out the air he'd been holding in. Y/N was warm. Wonderfully warm, it was heavenly after being outside, beaten by the elements. And she smelled nice. Sherlock nuzzled his nose into the back of Y/N's neck as he drifted off to sleep, feeling more content than he had in ages. He'd never cuddled anyone before.

" _ What are you doing?!"  _ Y/N woke suddenly the next morning, feeling something weighing her down, something warm and moving, and sat up quickly, scrambling away from it. When she'd seen it was just her flatmate, groggy and tired from sleeping in his own bed, Y/N's anger and embarrassment had replaced the fear. She went red.

"Sleeping?" Sherlock offered, sitting up as well, rubbing the haze from his eyes and staring at her, confused.

"You have a  _ lot  _ of explaining to do!" Y/N had exited the bed, her clear distaste for the situation making something inside Sherlock crumble as he realized what was actually going on, and his face fell, cheeks heating from shame.

"I'm sorry! I thought because you were in my bed that that meant you wanted to cuddle--- or- or something---"

" _ Cuddle?! Cuddle?! _ " Y/N looked at the detective in disbelief, messy-haired and drowsy, oddly innocent looking. And hearing him say 'cuddle' in that way, the look as if---if she didn't know any better--- hope disappeared from Sherlock's eyes; it made her feel guilty. And ashamed. She'd actually quite like to get back in bed with him---

"To be fair, you were in  _ my  _ bed," Sherlock fought back, that look of disappointment gone now, and replaced with an offended and irritated frown.

"It was just there so I thought I'd have a nap! I thought you'd wake me up when you came back!"

"Yeah, I get no thanks for that, do I? Going out in a  _ storm  _ to get your bloody milk for you!"

" _ Thank you, _ " Y/N snarled, too proud to show the wave of gratitude that nearly threatened to wash away her charade.

Sherlock stared at her, emotionless, expression a stony blank.

Y/N finally broke eye contact and left, muttering something about having a shower.

...

Breakfast was awkward that morning. Sherlock felt hollow and disappointed. In himself, and his stupid heart for wanting someone who obviously didn't want him. He remembered the cuddle, that night, how he'd woken up every now and again whenever Y/N moved; because it felt lovely against his body, and he wasn't used to someone next to him while he sat out the often sleeplessly lonely nights.

"Sorry I yelled at you," Y/N suddenly said, quietly as if he'd sensed his thoughts. Her gaze was fixed on her bowl of cereal.

_ 'She can't even bear to look at me'  _ Sherlock thought. "It's fine. Sorry, I didn't wake you."

"No. I shouldn't have been in your bed. And I wasn't as repulsed as I seemed---by the... cuddling. I was just shocked. Let's forget it, okay?"

"Okay."

Y/N offered Sherlock a tentative smile, which he tried to return. 'Forget it' kept replaying in Sherlock's head. He didn't want to forget it. It had been wonderful.

  
...

The day passed as usual. When Y/N had moved into 221B it had become customary for her (much to Sherlock's delight) to assist him with cases. However, he had none to solve, at present, but wished he did because he would have been more than glad of the distraction.

He couldn't stop thinking about Y/N.

Sherlock had been to weddings before, overheard couples, seen movies, and he'd always sneered whenever someone would say they can't stop thinking about their partner. He'd look down his nose at them as if they were juvenile and silly, as if it was  _ their _ fault. He knew now---now that he was experiencing it for himself---that it very much was not their fault, and he'd been unfair to judge them so harshly. Now, the way he saw it, they were all victims, at the mercy of a horrible betrayal by their own bodies.

Whatever he thought about, wherever he looked, his brain somehow found a way to link it back to his best friend.

He tried catching up on paperwork at his desk, but got distracted by Y/N's doodles, her drawing supplies and half-finished artwork spread over his things and didn't have the heart to move them.

He experimented with putting various crumbs leftover from breakfast under his microscope, but kept almost calling Y/N over to come and look how pretty sugar crystals were up close, or how similar bread looks to bark.

He opened the curtains, observing the sodden streets below and remembered all the times he and Y/N had walked through bouts of rain, how it made her cheeks rosy, and that one time she'd tucked herself into his coat to shelter when she'd forgotten her own. Her little body pressed up against his chest, his arms hesitantly coming around her, making him feel big and protective---

Hell, he couldn't even just pace irritably because objects around the flat that were her favourite colour caught his attention and wouldn't let go.

Y/N, however, seemed very much at peace. She had been reading for most of the day, having claimed Sherlock's chair at some time around Ten, and barely moving since. Sherlock was glad of this for two reasons, one being...

He always got a pleasant warm feeling in his chest whenever Y/N used anything that belonged to him, like when she'd used his coat as shelter. It was now half One, so he'd been experiencing this glow for about three and a half hours. He hadn't experienced prolonged happiness very much in his life, and now that he was---no matter how silly he saw its origin---he liked it.

And two: Reading meant sitting mostly still and not talking, which was good. Well, Sherlock would actually like her to talk to him very much, expressing herself with hand gestures and her cute little Y/N-isms that he'd become so bafflingly fond of, but not right now. Not when he was trying to get her out of his head, to fall out of love with her.

This morning had been a wakeup call for him, a bucket of ice water shocking him back into reality. When he'd first fallen in love with Y/N he had guiltily hoped that one day...maybe just _one_ _day_ he might get up the courage to tell her about his feelings. And maybe then she'd perhaps say she felt the same way about him. And she'd kiss him and take him to bed and from that day on introduce him as her boyfriend to everyone that she meets.

It was obvious to him now that that would never happen; earlier, her cheeks red with anger, her inability to even  _ look _ at him---his hopes of romance had instantaneously evaporated.

...

Around Three in the afternoon, Y/N suggested they go to a little cafe they often frequent, about half an hours walk away, just to get out of the house. Sherlock agreed because he hoped being outside would give his mind something else to focus on, and he liked the brownies they sold there.

It was still raining, in a classically English way, fat, lazy drops of water landing dully on their umbrellas as they dodged puddles, splashes from cars driving through puddles, and other people dodging puddles. Sherlock wasn't complaining, though, and nor was any other British person; rain was good. Rain gave you something to talk about without having to talk about anything at all; small talk, people called it, and for the first time in his life Sherlock was glad to make use of it.

"A drop of rain just went down the back of my neck," He observed aloud, when what he really wanted to say was:  _ 'Did you enjoy last night's cuddle at all? Even just a tiny bit?' _

"I just got one in my eye," Y/N answered, but Sherlock wished she'd said:  _ 'Yes, I loved it, I was just too shy to ask if I could stay.' _

"I really should buy a more waterproof coat. I don't know why I insist on wearing this one all year round. It's soaked through," said Sherlock, which meant:  _ 'You definitely could have stayed. You should come and sleep with me again tonight, if you want.' _

"I need a new umbrella. This one has a broken rib." Which he wanted to mean:  _ 'Would you really like me to?' _

Sherlock stayed silent and thought to himself:  _ 'More than anything in the world.' _

...

They arrived at the cafe so dripping wet they must have looked like they swam up the Thames to get there. Luckily, there weren't many other people brave enough to tackle the weather, and the ones that were looked to be in just about the same state.

Sherlock waited with Y/N at the till, offering to pay for his half of the bill but she wouldn't hear of it, then offering to carry the tray for her to their favourite spot by the window, but she wouldn't hear of that either. Sherlock had always felt a certain pride in the way just his general aura and mood could easily slot the people around him into place; make it clear that he was in charge of this room, this situation, and they would usually just meekly accept it. Not with Y/N, though. Y/N just saw him as her... buddy. Her mate. Someone she would playfully punch on the arm, give him a light shove in the side when they're messing around, someone she  _ could _ mess around with.

No one else seemed to see him as someone they could mess around with. Sherlock wished they would, it gets boring having to act so formally all the time. A lot of things get boring, he found. Like pretending you think relationships are stupid, and pretending to think movies are a waste of time, and that enjoying things that other people enjoy is a bad thing. Like hot chocolate. He's drinking a hot chocolate now, because it's a drink he secretly adores, and he knows Y/N wouldn't make fun of him for that. But if Mycroft was here he definitely would, and probably make some jab about how his little brother preferring a sweet sugar-filled drink to black coffee is a perfect metaphor for his life. Or something.

Y/N had ordered a millionaire shortbread, and Sherlock the brownie he'd been looking forward to since Y/N mentioned they go here in the first place. Y/N was still being abnormally quiet since that morning, Sherlock noted with a painful pang in his chest. He'd like to say he regretted not waking her last night, regretted wrapping himself about her, but that would be a lie. Despite how creepy he knew it sounded, and how it made his insides twist in on themselves in self-disgust, he didn't one-hundred per-cent regret it. Yes, he was horrified he'd made Y/N uncomfortable, but he was also glad that he'd managed to share a bed with someone he likes---the  _ only _ person he likes---at least once in his life. He just wished time would go faster and start healing her wounds so they could go back to how they used to be; two best friends, no awkward rift between them.

For instance, usually, they would play a game called 'First One'. It was simple, really, easy if you knew what you were looking out for; you both stare out the window at the soaking Londoners passing by the cafe and try to be the first one to spot a pre-specified trait. For example, one person would say 'First one to spot...someone that owns a dog' and you'd both have to be the first to point out a person who was walking a dog, or had dog hair on their clothes, or a keychain saying 'I love my Dalmatian'---or whatever else you could see that indicated they owned a doggo. Whoever wins picks the next trait you have to spot.

Usually, the game would end over a dispute: 'You don't know that just because his shoes had mud on them that he's  _ from _ the countryside! They could be second hand, or he could be borrowing them, or he has a community garden, or---' Something like that. Sherlock liked this part of the game more than the game itself because it always led to both of them having a rather fun pretend argument, and Y/N messing around with him in that I-see-us-as-equals way that other people just  _ don't _ .

They weren't playing 'First One' now, though. They weren't playing anything, weren't even talking, and they hadn't properly since yesterday.

Sherlock had finished his drink and cake before Y/N and was now (accidentally) watching her try to stop trickling strands of caramel stick to her lips as she ate her millionaire shortbread. He subconsciously moistened his own lips, watching the sugar glisten on her mouth, and she noticed, raising an eyebrow.

"What are you looking at me like that for?"

He flushed a little, glad for the clouds darkening the sky so she (hopefully) couldn't see the colour of his cheekbones. "Like what?"

"I don't know. You're just looking at me oddly."

He didn't know how to reply to that, and he didn't trust himself to move, because instead of speaking, he thought he would probably be more likely to accidentally kiss her, just to lick that distracting sugary substance from her lips.

Y/N eyed his face, which was probably written with longing, and then down at her biscuit, an ' _ ah, I get it _ ' expression tugging her lips. "You want some?" She asked, offering it to him.

Sherlock held in his surprise, because he hadn't been gazing desirously at the food. But he nodded all the same, and to his delight Y/N held the snack to his mouth so he could take a bite, pulling it away from his teeth after they'd delicately closed on it. He hummed, the shortbread surprisingly nice, and she chuckled, grinning, then leaned over the table and wiped the corner of his lips with her thumb. He went rigid, the feeling of her touching his face and taking care of him making little thrills of excitement shoot through his midsection

"You have some on your mouth," Y/N explained what she was doing distractedly, then placed her thumb between her own lips, licking the syrup away, the way she moved her tongue over the digit making Sherlock stare at her.

When his mind had dragged itself away from the thoughts he hoped no one would ever find out he had had, he wondered if they were out of the metaphorical storm. Y/N was talking to him, being friendly, almost as if last night had never happened. He began to relax back into his chair, wondering what he should pick for the game of 'First One' he was about to suggest starting---

"By the way, I'm going out tonight," Y/N said, suddenly.

Sherlock said nothing, waiting for her to continue. She didn't usually 'go out'. She prefered to stay in in the evenings, usually tucked up with a good book, doing some form of art, watching her favourite TV show---homey things, introverted things. Sherlock liked that about her; she was usually at home, and so was he, which meant she was with him. He liked her being there.

"I've got a date."

A lump formed in Sherlock's throat, the same feeling coming over him that he had once when a criminal he was wrestling had wrapped a power cord around his neck. "A date as in a  _ date _ date, or a 'I need to meet a colleague on this specific day' kind of date?"

Y/N was tearing her napkin into small pieces absently. "Well, he is a colleague. But it's the first kind of date. Like, a  _ date _ date."

  
  


...

Sherlock opened and closed his mouth several times before managing to stutter: "Like a romantic date? With candles and wine and..." he lost his train of thought there, realising with a hollow feeling that he didn't know what dates were like because he'd never been on one.

"Yeah," Y/N answered, her brow furrowing in a way that suggested she was a bit miffed. "Why do you seem so surprised?"

'Surprised?' No, 'surprised' was the wrong word. 'Devastated', 'distraught', and 'shook' came to mind, but they weren't strong enough either. They didn't fully capture the stabbing sensation Sherlock felt at the mental image of Y/N clasping the hand of another man, kissing him and---

He didn't let himself get any further down that road. "I'm not surprised. It's just..." He wanted to say: 'You're mine' but bit it back, cursing at himself for being so possessive, so jealous and petty. He didn't mind loving her and her not loving him back, so much. But her not loving him back  _ and _ dating someone else? Having to watch her do that, kiss him good night when he walks her home, invite him up to her room, eventually move out, the idea was torture. "All the time you've lived with me you haven't gone on a... date." The word was sour on his tongue.

Y/N shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly. "Well, I feel settled in now, you know? I'm settled into our apartment, settled into my new job, settled into my new life. Tom kept asking me to go for a meal with him and I kept putting him off, but now I think I'm ready to get out there."

"Tom?" Why did he know that name? "Tom as in  _ Tom _ ?"

"Yeah. Don't sound so appalled, he'd be a great partner."

Sherlock huffed as if he thought the exact opposite, but really he completely agreed, and that was  _ why _ he was appalled. He'd met Tom only once, when Sherlock had dropped the lunch Y/N had forgotten to take off at her work. He'd found Y/N chatting to a tall brunette (Sherlock would be lying if he said he hadn't self-consciously tried to stand up a little straighter when he stood next to him), his perfectly tailored suit complimenting his athletic build, blue eyes bright and genial. Y/N had introduced them, which Sherlock hoped he'd looked convincingly pleased about, and he'd grown even less pleased as their conversation went on. Tom was open and compassionate and romantic and the sort of person who always asks how your weekend was.

Almost the exact opposite of Sherlock.

Tom was perfect.

"Why get back out there with... Tom, though?" He wouldn't mind so much if it was Gary---that five-foot-nine guy she chatted with at break, or Michael---the one with a terrible lisp and bad hair, but  _ Tom _ ? His heart did a painful little twist. Tom would be forever. Tom would make her breakfast every single morning, Tom would send her flowers when it wasn't even valentines day, Tom would ask her to marry him and they'd keep photos of it on the fridge they'd own in their cosy three-bedroom house among finger paintings by their two children--- "I mean, he's okay, but, Tom? Really?" Sherlock wished he would just shut up, but his mouth didn't seem to be a part of him that he could control right now. He hated how he was acting, here was his best friend telling him intimate details about her life, probably looking for support, and all his jealousy-riddled brain made him do in response was question her choices. He should  _ want _ her to be with Tom. She  _ deserves _ a Tom.

"Yes, really. I don't know what you mean, he's nice, he's friendly, he's attractive---"

Sherlock wanted to take the blunt little cake knife he'd eaten his brownie with and stab himself violently in the chest.

"---we have only exchanged small talk, to be honest, but I'd really like to get to know him more."

Sherlock made a whimpering noise at all the ways she'd get to know him, but hid it by hurriedly clearing his throat. "Yeah, but...  _ Tom _ ."

Y/N was frowning, now, her lips (that Sherlock had only moments ago daydreamed about kissing) set in a firm line. She crossed her arms over her chest defensively, as if hugging her life choices to her body, keeping them safe out of harm's way. Not that she looked vulnerable, she looked angry and a little bit upset. "Come on, then, what's wrong with him?"

"Nothings  _ wrong _ with him---"

"Exactly. See, I think you'd pick at any guy I go out with because you think dating is beneath you. Well, it's not, Sherlock, it's not beneath anyone. Just because you choose to never have sex, never love someone, that doesn't mean we all have to, that doesn't make you better than everyone else."

Feeling like he'd just received a hefty blow to the stomach, Sherlock gaped at the woman across from him, for once genuinely lost for words. Of course, she was right; he'd find something to complain about no matter who she chose to date---but not for the reason she thinks. He wanted to tell her right then and there that she was  _ wrong _ , that he actually did want to do those things very much. That he was already doing one of them and---if it was reciprocated---he'd welcome it with open arms. That he daydreams of doing the other one every time he sees her gorgeous smile, every time she stretches and her T-shirt rises up enough to expose her tummy, every time she lays out on the sofa. He wanted to tell her that every night, in bed, he reaches over to feel the starchy sheets of the other side, wishing someone was there with him.

But he couldn't. Knew he  _ shouldn't _ because Y/N had been repulsed at finding him cuddling her. Because she's going on a date with Tom. Because she might not even like him at all, now.

Sherlock feels like he's suddenly gone through the five stages of grief, all in one five minutes. "No," he muttered meekly, not liking the sensation of her scowling at him one bit. "I don't think dating is beneath anyone."

He'd nearly added 'Apart from you. Everything is beneath you because you transcend everything.'

"I hope you have fun tonight." He's not even lying. He does want her to have fun, he wants her to be happy, even if it's not with him. Because he loves her.

Y/N's expression softened slightly, seeming glad that she'd hit a nerve, but her mood remained sullen. "You didn't deny that you'd hate anyone I chose to go out with."

Sherlock pretended to suddenly be very interested in a scratch on the table.

...

The walk back to 221B was spent in silence. Sherlock hated every second of it. He hated the fact that he'd made Y/N upset, he hated the fact that he made it seem like he didn't support her, he hated the fact that he appeared to not want her to be happy, he hated the fact that all of this was happening at all.

All he had had to do, he ranted at himself in his head, was say: 'That's nice, I hope you have a good time, will you want dinner or are you eating there?'. That's it. Then hide in his room later today and practice getting used to the fact that Y/N was never going to be with him, so she might as well be with someone else. But he hadn't, he'd argued like an idiot, and now she  _ saw _ him as an idiot, illogical and irrational, and she didn't even know that it was  _ her _ that was making him this way.

Sherlock had never been jealous over a woman before. He'd never been  _ interested _ in a woman before, to be honest. Maybe because other people have always been slightly alien to him. They felt distant, out of reach; women had never paid that much attention to him, no one paid much attention to him, so he didn't pay attention to them. Until Y/N.

She'd come into his life like the sun after a storm, all curious eyes and radiant smiles and infectious laughs, how could he  _ not _ be interested in her?

...

Seeing Y/N in the dress she'd chosen to wear for her date with Tom caused Sherlock a wave of emotional turmoil that he hopes he will never have to face ever again.

The fabric was thin and looked soft to touch, gently clinging to her figure and highlighting all the right places; her neck that he'd daydreamed of kissing God knows how many times, her legs that he couldn't look at without feeling light-headed, and her shoulders that he'd, well, also daydreamed about kissing (what he was sure was) too often to be healthy. Her hair was freshly washed and styled; all of her was styled, but not too much to stop her looking like Y/N. She was still very much Y/N, and that's what caused goosebumps to prickle every centimeter of Sherlock's skin when she came into the living room.

Sherlock had been reading a book. He'd found that reading books was actually a rather efficient way of distracting the mind when you can't stop thinking about someone (unless that book happened to have romance in it. Then every time a character was mentioned 'caressing his thigh' or 'taking her in his arms' he couldn't help imagine that the couple was him and Y/N).

"Right, I'm going now, bye," Y/N had said, still sounding nettled, not that Sherlock noticed.

He'd looked up from his page and his jaw had fallen so far open he may have dislocated it. She was so... _beautiful_ , she was breath-taking, she was staggeringly gorgeous, she was---dressed like that for _someone_ _else_. "Are you sure?" His body is doing that thing again; that thing where his petty emotions, primal instincts, have taken the wheel and are driving him down streets he'd rather not go.

Y/N was bending over to put on her shoes and Sherlock had to look away because he'd become uncomfortably hot. "Yes, I'm sure. Are you just mad because I won't be here to watch TV with you tonight? Because I know it's Movie Night, we'll just move it to tomorrow, okay?"

Y/N knows he has Asperger's syndrome and thus about his love of routine, his discomfiture with changed plans, and she'd always just accepted them as one of his many Sherlock-isms. She must have assumed that that's why he's upset.

Sherlock, in all honesty, had completely forgotten that Movie Night even existed, but Y/N had just---unintentionally---handed him an excuse for his crappy behaviour and he was going to cling to it like a lifeline. "We can't just  _ move _ Movie Night," he complained, hoping he seemed convincingly upset about it. Y/N can't leave, she can't slip out of his grasp forever. She'd fall for Tom, he just knew it.

"We'll have to skip it then."

"We can't skip it either. Stay, see Tom another time."

"No, it's all organised now, I'm not cancelling a chance at a relationship just because you want to watch TV."

Sherlock wilted a little, hurt. The film was not the reason he enjoyed Movie Night, sitting next to Y/N on a sofa, sharing a blanket with her, a bowl of popcorn balanced on their laps; that's why he enjoyed Movie Night. The experience obviously didn't mean as much to her as it did to him.

Y/N finished putting on her shoes and straightened up, smoothing her dress down self consciously. Sherlock couldn't help hope that she'd turn to him and ask him how she looked, or something, so he could tell her she's beautiful just once before someone else gets to do it instead.

But she didn't, she was unlocking the door.

"Wait, I've thought of something wrong with Tom!" Sherlock tried desperately, his insides knotting suddenly and violently, him actually rising from his chair, his book falling discarded to the floor with a papery thud that no one noticed. "He's too tall! Taller men have a higher risk of cancer---"

Y/N rolled her eyes at him, lips twitching into a smile at his desperate attempts to make her stay, and left. Walking out the door and---in Sherlock's mind---out of his life. That's what happens, he knew; people start dating and spend less time with their friends, then get married and make couples friends, then have kids and make family friends, and before he'd know it Sherlock would just be part of her old life, her past, a distant memory of before she became truly happy. That's where his mind was at now; having tried to stop thinking about Tom kissing that mole by Y/N's collarbone Sherlock had always wanted to kiss, he'd distracted himself by thinking about what Y/N dating actually meant. It meant he'd probably have to rent out the room upstairs again. The thought made him grimace. Maybe he'd just get a new apartment, one small enough to let by himself. 

  
...

The flat seemed darker without Y/N to light it up. Only her belongings kept it from returning to the dismal grey it had been before she'd moved in. Sherlock had never really noticed how dingy the apartment had been before Y/N, how dingy his whole  _ life _ had been. How had he survived for so long without laughing with a friend? Without messing around, sharing jokes, just  _ talking _ to someone?

However he'd done it, he obviously no longer knew how, because loneliness was eating away at him within an hour of Y/N's absence. Thoughts of what Y/N was doing right now were eating away at him too, and he was struggling to keep them at bay. Tom letting her try some of his meal, holding his fork out for her pretty lips to close on. Y/N taking his hand resting on the table. Tom admiring her over the rim of his wine glass. 

Sherlock was getting a stomach ache.

...

As the clock on the kitchen wall's hour-hand dripped down to Six o'clock, Sherlock decided to visit Mrs Hudson. He hadn't spoken to her since he'd gone out to get the milk the other day, and felt it was time to render that. Plus he could really use the company.

His landlord's door swung open welcomingly almost immediately after the first knock, as if its occupant had been waiting by it for some time, anticipating his call. 

She probably had.

"Hello, dear. All on your own tonight, are you?"

Older people had always been a place of comfort for Sherlock. Maybe because he was the youngest child, and thus always drawn to motherly figures. Maybe because his job is so full of darkness that he often feels he carries the weight of the world on his shoulders; being with older people---people who have seen more things than he could imagine---often offered a new perspective that he would never have been able to fathom due to the simple fact that he isn't wise enough yet. How many times had he brought a problem to this woman, handed it over to her and she'd picked it apart quickly and easily for him, as if it was nothing more than a troublesome ball of yarn?

His pains soothed a little by her aura, he offered her a smile, but it still came with obvious effort. "How did you know?"

Mrs Hudson placed one of her little bird hands on his back (the small of it, that being as high up as she could reach) and ushered him into the flat. He liked her flat, probably because while _ his _ flat's decor was that of cold indifference, hers was homely and quaint and splashed with evidence of a rich and exciting life. Gifts from past lovers, souvenirs from far-away places. She'd  _ done _ things. Sherlock...hadn't. He kept little prizes from cases he'd found especially interesting, but all they reminded him of were blood stains and the looks on family's faces as he delivered the truth of what had happened to their loved one. Mrs Hudson's trinkets were nothing like that, they were splashed with colour and wrapped in webs of stories.

"I saw Y/N get in a taxi a little while ago. She was all dressed up, she looked ever so pretty, didn't she?" Her eyes, brimming with sagacity, graced his face casually, daring him to admit that, yes, he did think she was pretty, very pretty indeed.

"Yes, if you like that sort of thing," he answered blandly, making the older woman roll her eyes.

Mrs Hudson asked Sherlock if he would like to stay for dinner, which he was grateful for. He didn't want to go back to the flat alone again, be left to his own devices; he knew that would mean hours of hiding from his own thoughts. To keep his mind busy, and because he was nice, Sherlock had cooked their meal, telling the older woman to 'relax, really, it's no trouble' whenever she tried to nudge him out of the way and take over in the classic maternal way many women over sixty seem to magically acquire.

They'd been eating in silence for a little while, aside from the occasional complement of sherlock's culinary skills, when Mrs Hudson said suddenly:

"Don't let it go back to how it was before, will you, Sherlock?"

"What do you mean?"

"Back to how you were before John moved in. And then how you were again when he moved out and before Y/N moved in. Don't let yourself go back to that."

Oh, that's what she meant. Without meaning to, she had just inadvertently voiced one of the things Sherlock had been worriedly turning over in his mind since Y/N mentioned she'd like to 'get back out there'. His fear that, without a best friend, he'd retreat back into his sullen, stony persona, using arrogance and rudeness to cover the deep hole in his soul.

"It's not really something I can control. If Y/N moves in with this Tom guy---"

"She's not going to do that. She wouldn't do that if you just tell her how you  _ feel--- _ " Her tone of voice was pleading, like a mother begging her child to cut out whatever self-destructive behaviour they were into. In a way, that's sort of what was happening.

Feeling himself frosting over, stuffing any evidence of having feelings back into the box he'd kept it in for so many years, Sherlock answered in a measured tone: "I don't  _ feel  _ anything," putting emphasis on the word 'feel' as if the very idea was absurd. 

"Well, that's a shame, because she likes you too, you know. I can tell. She smiles at you."

Sherlock huffed a laugh. "She smiles at everyone."

"Yes, but not like that."

...

The conversation had ended there because Sherlock couldn't think of anything else to say. A small part of him wanted to argue back, tell her she was being a dreamer, an idealist, that she was seeing what she wanted to see. But the majority of him didn't want to talk about it anymore, so he just kept quiet.

As much as he respected her intelligence, Sherlock didn't believe what Mrs Hudson had said for a second. She loves him, and like everyone that loves someone, she wanted the best for them, which sometimes meant lying. Her logic was, probably, that if she could convince him to confess his love to Y/N, even if she'd never shown any signs of attraction, there was still some tiny chance that she feels the same way. And, to Mrs Hudson's optimistic it's-better-to-have-tried-and-failed mind, that trumped doing nothing. 'At least you tried' she'd always say whenever he'd had to give up on a case. She was applying that same logic to this problem, but, the way Sherlock saw it, trying was not an option. Best case scenario would be him telling Y/N he loves her, and her politely turning him down, then their friendship being shrouded in a slight awkwardness for the foreseeable future. Worst case scenario: He tells Y/N he loves her and she gets completely creeped out and then  _ moves _ out within a week.

When Mrs Hudson eventually sent Sherlock on his way, she looked sad and tired. Sherlock felt guilty that the thundercloud above his own head had spread to hers, and tried to tell her to forget about all this, but obviously she refused.

Feeling somehow worse than he had before, Sherlock showered, then shrugged on his pyjamas and flopped half-heartedly into bed. It was only nine, but he hadn't been sleeping well recently and decided to try to catch up on a few hours. 'Everything will look better in the morning', wasn't that the phrase? He hoped being unconscious meant he wouldn't think about the fact that Y/N wasn't home yet, or that she might not even be home for breakfast tomorrow.

...

Y/N did come home before breakfast, though, she came home at around ten pm. Sherlock knew because he heard her footsteps up the stairs, not that he'd been listening for them, of course (although he noted---with a twinge of guilty joy---that there was only one pair of footfalls). 

Sherlock lay in his darkened room, the sheets slightly knotted around his feet from tossing a turning, hearing Y/N kick off her shoes and pad to the bathroom next to his bedroom. Five minutes ago he'd been riddled with anxiety, his thoughts as knotted as his duvet, but now he could feel himself relax. Just hearing the familiar sounds of Y/N getting ready for bed, the sink running, things being taken out and placed back in cupboards, the sounds of Y/N _being_ _in_ _the_ _flat_ was enough to calm his nerves.

The bathroom door closed and Sherlock waited to hear Y/N's footsteps fade away as she went upstairs to her room, but they didn't. They left the loo, then seemed to cross to Sherlock's door, where they stopped. After a few moments there was a tentative knock, so small that he doubted whether he'd heard a knock at all.

When another knock sounded, louder this time, Sherlock knew it hadn't been a trick by his hopeful imagination, and clicked on his bedside light, pulling himself up into a sitting position. "Yeah?"

"Can I come in?" Y/N called through the door in a tone Sherlock didn't recognise.

"Of course." He couldn't help smiling as she entered, the way he does when he's pleased to see her, which is always. "What's the matter?" His smile broadened at the sight of her in her pyjamas.

"Nothing. Just...this will sound weird but can I stay in here with you tonight?"

He hadn't been expecting that. His lips tugged upwards at the corners. "I thought after this morning---"

"I know. But...now I don't think I'll be able to sleep without it."

"I don't think Tom would like you sharing a bed with another man." He was only half teasing her; vengeful boyfriends of Y/N was something Sherlock genuinely didn't want to get involved with. Having to stand there and assure them that Y/N meant nothing to him when actually she meant everything---

"Don't." Was Y/N's only reply.

Sherlock had, quite frankly, expected more. She usually matches his joshing with her own perfectly sculpted quips, them mock-arguing with each other being one of his favourite pastimes. But she didn't take the bait this time. She looked tired. The sight of her standing there, all small and vulnerable in faded nightclothes, made Sherlock want to personally carry her to the bed himself. 

But he didn't, because he didn't dare, and instead opened the covers for her. "You're welcome to sleep here. I... I liked it too." 

She didn't move, so he added: 

"What is it?"

"There's something else I wanted to tell you."

  
  


...

Trying to hide the fact that this had made his stomach do a backflip, Sherlock nodded. "Okay. It's cold, though, so you should get in the bed first."

Y/N visibly wavered. "I'm scared that if I do, once I've told you, you'll kick me out again."

Now  _ he _ was scared. What could she possibly have to say that makes her think he'd ever do such a thing? "You didn't...  _ kill _ Tom, did you?" He asked, not really believing that she had (and yet still mentally crossing his fingers just in case). Wouldn't it be typical if his best friend turns out to be a murderer?

Thankfully, Y/N's worried expression briefly dissolved, giving way to a nervous giggle. "No, no, no, nothing like that." She crossed the room to the bed, Sherlock's heart in his mouth as he watched her.

He'd imagined her doing that God knows how many times. Now it was  _ happening _ , but not in the way he'd envisioned.

The mattress dipped in a pleasing way as Y/N climbed onto it, Sherlock thinking he should move up to give her more room but not really wanting to. It's amazing how simply having someone else---having Y/N---in his bed made it instantly more appealing. He'd been struggling to sleep for weeks, and yet he felt that if he laid down right now, with Y/N's scent filling his brain, her warmth caressing his skin, he'd probably drift off within a matter of moments.

"Sherlock...you know how I hadn't been on a date in a while?" Y/N was fiddling with the sleeve of her pyjama top, picking at a loose thread.

Sherlock stayed silent, letting her continue. He sat up properly and crossed his legs so she knew she had his full attention. Whatever she was going to say was obviously bothering her. He wanted her to know that if she had a problem, he would solve it. He wanted her to know that if something was weighing her down, she could put it at his feet and he'd carry it.

"Well, I told you---I told  _ myself _ \---that it was because I needed to settle into my new life, but that's not true. The truth is... I didn't want to find someone else to fall in love with."

"Someone 'else'?" Slipped from Sherlock's lips before he could grab it.

Y/N had her gaze fixed on a point just to the left of Sherlock's knee. "Yeah. I'm already in love with someone. I've been in love with him for a while, but he won't feel that way about me. I haven't told him yet because I don't want to ruin the relationship I have with him."

_ 'I know that feeling,"  _ Sherlock thought to himself.

"I hoped I could just...ignore my feelings for him. I tried to move on by going out with Tom, because he'd be good for me, but the whole time I was there I couldn't stop thinking about the other man. Every time Tom did anything,  _ said _ anything, I found myself mentally comparing it to the man I'm in love with." She laughed damply at herself. "Like, he stood in front of me when he kissed me on the cheek to say goodbye---" If she noticed Sherlock tense she didn't mention it. "And all I could think about while he was doing it was how my eyes lined up to the wrong place on him. It sounds stupid, I know, but it was then that I properly realised I can't ever date someone else while I'm still completely obsessed with this man."

Sherlock turned this information over in his head several times, examining it like it was a bomb he wasn't totally sure how to diffuse. On one hand, he wanted to help Y/N, of course he did, the thought of her being in any kind of uncomfortable position physically pained him. But on the other, she was in love with another man--- _ obsessed _ with another man---which was so much worse than her date with the barley-acquaintance-Tom that the very thought of it made him want to have a fatal aneurysm. "Okay."

"I didn't really know what to do about it. I mean...I can't spend my whole life pining over him, and yet I can't stop doing just that. I ended my date with Tom early; I didn't want to string him along, obviously. I explained why it would never work between us and he was really understanding and supportive. We talked about it as we walked around the park a few times."

Sherlock noted, with embarrassment, that despite Y/N having just said she wasn't interested in Tom, that feeling of jealousy had still curled its way around his brain at her compliments. Was it going to be like this with every man Y/N talks about? Every time she thanks a male cashier, every time she tells a male taxi driver where to drop her off, every time a man so much as happens to be in her general vicinity, Sherlock's blood would boil with resentment?

"Okay," Sherlock said again, hoping he didn't sound like a stuck record. He just genuinely didn't know what to say. He didn't if he was honest, really know why Y/N was telling him all this. To ask for advice? Surely she knows better than to come to him for things of this subject. To vent? They often did vent to each other, but never in each other's beds like teenagers at a sleepover. They'd never woken each other up to gossip well into the night.

"In the park, Tom gave me some advice... He thinks I should tell the man that I'm in love with that I love him. He said that I don't know for sure that he doesn't love me back, and even if he doesn't, even if it makes things weird, at least I got it off my chest. Got closure, you know?"

Still feeling a little lost, but glad to be entrusted with Y/N's personal issues (despite how he'd treated them before) Sherlock tried his best to look supportive. Y/N's happiness was, and always would be, his paramount concern, even if it did mean possibly flinging her into the arms of another man. "That sounds like a good idea."

Y/N visibly perked up at this, Sherlock's words seemingly having more effect than he had been expecting. "You really think so?"

"Yeah. I mean, I know relationships aren't really my area but that seems like a logical step forward." Yes, he had been internally calling himself a hypocrite the whole time he'd been talking.

"I'm glad you think that because..." Y/N met his eyes properly for the first time since she'd entered his room, taking a deep breath, filling her lungs with oxygen as if she was preparing to dive underwater for a long time. "It's you, Sherlock. The man I'm in love with."

Sherlock forgot how to breathe for a bit.

Y/N still had her eyes trained on him, gauging his reaction, waiting for him to say something.

Eventually, he managed to take a shaky breath in and pushed out a small: "Pardon?"

"I love you. I'm  _ in _ love with you. God, earlier I used the word 'obsessed', that doesn't make me look crazy at  _ all _ . Oh well, I've said it now---" she was rambling, filling the silence with nervous nothings, but Sherlock had stopped listening a while ago.

"You love me?" His voice was weaker than he'd like it to be, his everything was weaker than he'd like it to be; he felt as if his every blood cell had been turned to helium and he was flying upwards very very fast.

"Yes. So much that I've barely been able to keep it hidden, especially from you. You spot  _ everything _ . Like this morning, when I woke up in your bed, that was too close. I freaked out because I'd wanted to be there for so long---I was terrified you'd notice I was enjoying it a little too much, or I'd do something stupid like melt at the sound of your morning voice." She must have noticed Sherlock's stunned expression because she added: "This doesn't have to change anything between us---"

Quickly, like a man trying to grab a branch protruding from the cliff he's falling off: "No! No...I  _ want _ it to change things between us." The flying sensation was slowly being replaced by an overpowering sense of relief as his mind realised what this  _ means _ . He took her hands, clasping them tightly in his own, maybe too tightly, but it didn't seem to matter because she gripped back with equal intensity.

"Hold on, what? What are you saying, Sherlock, because I swear if you're---"

_"_ I'm saying _I love you too."_ When he'd imagined saying that for the first time he'd seen himself grinning with euphoria, but in actuality, now that it was happening, he felt more like crying.

Y/N stared at him for a long time. To make sure he was being sincere? To process what he'd just said? "You do?" Her own voice was wobbly, unsteady like a person who'd just been knocked down by a massive wave.

"Yes. I have for months. I didn't want to tell you in case you stopped liking me."

Shaking her head slightly in disbelief, Y/N released Sherlock's hands (which worried him, before he realised she wasn't leaving) and pushed herself up into a kneeling position. "Sherlock."

Said man watched, his skin tingling in anticipation as the woman he loved moved closer to him, so close her breasts nudged against his chest, making him bite back a groan. He had to tip his head back to look up at her, curiously, expression bordering on begging, pleading her silently to go on. He didn't know what Y/N was about to do, but he did know that whatever it was he was ready for it. He'd been ready for it since he saw her beautiful smile, since he heard her addictive laugh, since the first time she'd called him brilliant.

"There's nothing in the world that could make me stop liking you."

This time Sherlock did have to blink back tears. He hadn't thought that was possible; that someone could just love him and love him and love him without having to put in effort. He didn't think someone could love him _full_ _stop_.

Y/N slipped her fingers into his hair, her nails sliding along his scalp (heaven), her hand coming to rest at the crown of his head and he leaned into her palm. Just having someone touch him... _ wow _ . Her face was inches from his now, but he couldn't push that little bit closer because she was above him, she was controlling the situation, and she was going too  _ slowly _ , teasing him. 

Sherlock knew that's what she's doing; revelling in the moment, playing with him like a cat plays with a mouse before eating it. She'd wanted this for as long as he had, and she had the advantage of knowing what she was doing. It occurred to Sherlock that he was completely at her mercy, putting himself metaphorically in her hands, and he didn't mind at all. He'd let her do whatever she wanted to him, he realised with a blush. He'd give her his soul if she asked for it.

Y/N's other hand was at his chest, sliding at a painfully leisurely pace up to the side of his neck. Sherlock couldn't help taking her hips in his own hands, squeezing them experimentally, a small desperate noise pushing from his lungs.

_ She's so close. _

How long had he wanted this? How many times had he played it out in his head? How many times had he tried to conjure up what it would feel like to hold her, to taste her, to have her love and body all for his own?

"Y/N," he managed, his voice guttural. "Please kiss me. I... need it."

...

Y/N was smiling as she pressed her lips to his, Sherlock would always remember. He'd always remember it, not just because it's his first kiss, but because it was his first kiss with Y/N. The curve of her lips, the fluttering of her breath as she chuckled at his neediness, would forever be etched onto his mind.

Her lips were warm against his, her nose just touching his cheek. She touched him with such care, he wasn't used to it and he hummed helplessly, one of his hands coming up to hold the side of her face. Y/N had Sherlock's bottom lip between both of hers, sucking, working his mouth, the sensation sending ripples of pleasure through him, unparalleled to anything he'd ever experienced. Why had he been chasing criminals for kicks, hunting for adrenaline in cases when he could have been doing  _ this? _

She pulled away after a few seconds, or maybe it had been hours, and---had Sherlock been capable of opening his eyes---he would have seen that she was grinning. "If that's how you react to a gentle kiss, just imagine what the other things I can show you feel like." She stroked her hand through his hair, curls catching between her fingers and sending explosions of sensation bristling down his spine; a hint, a taster of what's to come.

Sherlock had to remind himself to breathe. "What are you going to show me?" He was both being coy, and genuinely curious. What sort of person is Y/N like to date? What do couples actually get up to, when they're alone? Was it really customary to shower together? To cuddle well into the morning? To take each other in every room of the house, just for fun?

Y/N leaned down to press a trail of kisses from his neck to his cheekbones, smirking as his eyes slipped closed again. "I'm going to show you what it feels like to be loved." And with that, she took his lips again, for a different type of kiss this time. That one had been slow, gentle, soft like she was easing him in, introducing him to this new pleasure. This kiss was wetter, hotter, deeper. She'd caught his full bottom lip between both of hers again and used his answering moan to slip her tongue between them.

Sherlock let out a low groan. That's all his body seemed to be able to do now; high on Y/N, his every nerve yearning for her, his every neuron focused on her, he probably couldn't do anything else if he tried. And he was  _ loving _ it. He had never encountered anything like this before in his life, and the sheer rushing pleasure of it made his brain stop thinking for once, and all he knew was how wonderful this was and that if she stopped kissing him he would probably die.

Then something amazing happened; as if she had read what little thoughts he had, Y/N put one leg over Sherlock's thighs and sat on his lap, still holding the back of his head with one hand, curls tight between her fingers. The inexperienced detective ached all over.

...

Y/N sitting on his lap had started a chain of events that had left both of them very out of breath, and with no clothes on. It hadn't meant to; Y/N had asked Sherlock if he wanted to stop there, to pull away and go to sleep, because he had just had his first kiss, after all. He might not be ready. Sherlock had then pointed out that he'd waited for so long for this that he'd actually been ready several months ago, so could she do that biting thing at his neck again, please.

Sherlock learnt what it felt like to be loved, that night. It had been amazing and then really amazing and then so amazing there was no word in the English language that could accurately encapsulate it all. 

He realised he'd been stupid for thinking people were wasting their life by engaging in such an activity, as not only had it been the single best feeling in his whole life, some old wounds had healed with Y/N's touch. He had felt aroused and excited in ways he'd never been before, but he'd also felt wanted, like he belonged, in ways he'd never been before. That empty loneliness he'd harboured for so many years, that sense of being unlovable, an outcast, was washed away by the waves of satisfaction Y/N had sent cascading right through his core.

Over the course of his existence, Sherlock had been punched, cut, almost stabbed, and very nearly shot. He'd received hugs from so few people he could count them on two hands, and so few on-the-cheek kisses he could count them on one.

Never before had he experienced someone do anything like this. Have a woman trace the curves of his muscles folded neatly like wings by his shoulder blades, run her hands down his spine, her fingers sliding up to tangle and tug a little in his hair. Never before had he had someone map out his body as if they were trying to memorise every mole, every scar, every inch of him, as if remembering the exact layout of his freckles was the most important task they could imagine.

She'd let him touch her too, of course, begged him to, directing his hands, not that she needed to, it turned out. Sherlock was skilled at many things and understanding the human body was no exception. Although, admittedly, he'd found it hard at times to concentrate on what he was doing. He wanted to explore Y/N too, of course he did, he'd imagined it more times than he could count. But every now and again she'd do something, like take the sensitive skin at his shoulder between her teeth, or make a particularly luscious noise against his lips, and his mind would liquify instantly. Luckily for him, more often than not, he'd do something for selfish reasons---like fondle some part of her he'd wanted to put his hands on because it made him weak at the knees---and Y/N would moan in answer, begging him not to stop (hearing her do that, beg him, had nearly been enough to send him over the edge on its own).

Y/N had taken Sherlock's shoulders and manoeuvred him onto his back, and he'd looked up at her, nervously yet in his eyes begging her to go on. She had leaned close to his ear and kissed him where she'd realised he liked, nudging her nose behind the lobe to caress him, and told him again that she loves him.

He'd stuttered it back as her hand slipped up his pyjama shirt, gracing the pads of her fingers against each gentle ridge of his ribs, sweeping down over his stomach to explore the smooth arches of his hips. 

He finally knew what it felt like. 

To be loved.

  
  



End file.
